


Pretty Things

by KassieProphet



Series: Mary Goore Stuff [8]
Category: Ghost (Sweden Band), Repugnant (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Other, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25067482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KassieProphet/pseuds/KassieProphet
Summary: Mary Goore is attracted to shiny things, and you've caught his eye
Relationships: Mary Goore/Reader
Series: Mary Goore Stuff [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1596607
Comments: 34
Kudos: 41





	Pretty Things

**Author's Note:**

> Should I be working on any of my other things? Yes! Did I write this instead? Also yes!

Mary Goore is a troll. 

Yes—a shit stirrer for sure, but mostly he’s a fiend who lives somewhere dank and far from people. Some say he squats in a mausoleum, but others will laugh and tell you he sublets a garden-level apartment. He’s always just around—the scene’s unofficial mascot who flits around, always there with everyone and no one, and  _ damn … _ you just missed him! But on weekends you can find him working the doors at bars and venues collecting tolls for entry.

On cloudy days, you can find him hanging out in The Pit with all the other gutter punks, passing around a needle to pierce each other and the guitar to play out some tunes. At night, though, he always seems to be hanging off the arm of someone way too clean, looking like the cat who ate the canary. Wherever he lives, he seems to spend more time in someone else’s bed.

It’s a bright, sunny day when you encounter him alone—without the camaraderie of your tribe. Mary Goore is stomping down the sidewalk holding a black-lace parasol aloft. It’s a  _ hot _ day, so beneath his studded and patched denim vest is just the  _ pale _ , paleness of his dewy skin—so bright and reflective in the sunshine that you think that maybe he was the inspiration for  _ that _ vampire. His black jeans are so ripped, you wonder if he wore them special—for the aeration. The carefully-constructed mat of his hair is making a valiant effort to stand up, despite how tufts of it stick to the sweat on his skin.

Some of it’s the shock of seeing Mary Goore out in the  _ sunlight _ , and some of it is just how blindingly  _ white _ he is—like sun refracting off a snowdrift—but you can’t help gaping at him even when you know he’s close enough to watch you do it.

Now, you don’t  _ know _ Mary Goore, but you spend enough time in divey bars and underground venues that you’re sure he at least recognizes you, so you expect maybe a wink as he passes by. Instead he walks straight up to you and stops.

“You’ll catch flies that way,” he says, and you shut your mouth with a click. He leans against the building with his free arm and gives you a once over. “Like what you see, gelfling?”

Reflexively, you look him up and down. What you thought were freckles is actually a collection of moles that dot his skin. It’s cute.

“I thought you were a mirage.”

He snorts and leans into your space. “Cuz I’m a cool drink of water?”

You look down again at the flat planes of his pale chest. 

“Because you’re, um … glowing.”

Mary licks his lips and hoods his eyes. Your heart pounds.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He leans in, and your eyes flutter closed. You wonder if he’ll taste as rank as he usually looks, or if he’ll taste like mint gum or something. Instead, you feel his lips at the conch of your ear.

“See ya ‘round, gelfling.”

Eyes snapping open, you whip around just in time to him striding away, the parasol still raised to shield him from the sun.

* * *

You don’t make it a point to seek Mary out—in fact, you’ve been trying to avoid him, sure he’d only make fun of you. So, it’s a surprise when—while waiting for your drink order—Mary suddenly appears. You start, but he just leans his elbow on the bar. 

“Hey,” he says as he catches the straw from his—mostly-finished, bright-yellow drink with a pink paper umbrella—and wraps his plush lips around it. He sucks, and soon you can hear the rattle and slurp as his glass empties. He maintains eye contact with you as he keeps going, the death knell of the drink now gurgling in a prolonged throe as Mary makes use of his surprisingly robust lung capacity.

Before you can say anything, the bartender is placing your pint of beer in front of you.

“That’ll be $6.50, doll.”

Mary waves his arm. “Hey, Ned—put it on my tab.”

Ned raises his eyebrow at him. “You mean ‘Stephanie’s’ tab?” His chin indicates a girl across the room with bright pink and purple hair.

Mary grins, then slams his glass down on the counter. “And make me a tequila sunset.”

“That was a sunrise.”

“I know, man. I like variety.” 

When he says ‘variety,’ Mary turns his head to you and winks.

Ned rolls his eyes and buses the glass—but not before Mary plucks out the paper umbrella. Mary crooks his finger at you, but when you hesitate, he leans forward instead.

“I expect you to treasure this forever,” he says as he sticks the umbrella in your hair just above your ear.

You sniff at him. “I’ll treasure it as long as you do your conquests.” You go for a dramatic exit, but almost spill your beer all over you when you practically collide with the guy behind you, and it sloshes a little bit over the lip of the pint glass. Straight backed, you walk stiffly away as Mary guffaws behind you.

The rest of the night, you make a point of not even glancing in Mary’s direction—you don’t want to see if there’s also an umbrella in Stephanie’s hair.

* * *

It’s late, and you’re drunk. The lot of you had parted ways after trivia with multiple $5 pitchers. Despite having downed your own weight in French fries, all you want is some fake cheese of the Cheetos variety. 

The convenience store is on your way home  _ and _ it’s still open. After the dark of the night outside, you almost have to shield your eyes from the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights. The bored teen at the counter watches as you stumble around to first the household aisle, then to the candy aisle, and back to the household aisle.

“Motherfucking cum whore,” you say out loud as you squint up at the signs again.

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

You jump out of your skin, and almost careen into the greeting card rack—but Mary grabs your arm at the last minute. He’s in his worn leather jacket and some really tight-ass jeans. After leering at his thighs for a moment you say,

“Oh. It’s you.”

Mary squints at you and then grins. “You’re sloshed.”

You make a  _ pffft _ noise at him.

“What drunk logic has brought you here?”

“I can’t find the Cheetos,” you whine.

He laughs at you. “All right. Hold on.”

You let Mary prop you up against the wall by the magazine rack, and you read all the celebrity gossip headlines while you wait. By the time he finally comes back, your eyes are beginning to droop with sleep. 

“Hey,” he snaps his fingers in front of your face. “No sleeping yet.”

“Cheetos,” is all you can manage before pointing into your mouth with an  _ ah _ noise.

There’s a bag placed into your hands, already open. You shove a handful into your mouth before you remember you have to buy it. So you start rooting around in your pockets.

“Jesus you’re a mess.You’re getting cheese dust everywhere. The fuck are you doing, anyway?”

“Gotta pay,” you mumble around the masticated food in your mouth.

“I took care of it. C’mon.” He puts his arm around your shoulders and guides you out of the store. You notice he’s got a coffee cup in his other hand when he brings it up to his mouth.

Once you’re outside, you see a woman in her best goth blacks and contoured Elvira face. She looks up at the two of you.

“Mare?”

“Aww, shit. Sorry, baby. I gotta walk a friend home. Some other time?”

The woman looks at you; even with Mary’s arm you’re weaving, and you haven’t stopped shoving the snack food into your mouth.

“Yeah, whatever.”

She walks into the street and immediately a cab pulls over.

“All right, you,” Mary says, drawing your attention back to him. “Let’s get you home.”

The two of you walk in silence except for the crunch of the Cheetos and the slurp of the coffee.

When you reach your apartment building, you say, “This is me.”

Mary shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Hey, uh—do you mind if I crash on your couch?” He gives you a sheepish smile. “I kinda thought I’d be sleeping … elsewhere.”

“Me casa su casa,” you slur.

“Cool, thanks.”

You can’t wait to see the looks on your roommates’ faces when they wake up to Mary Fucking Goore in their apartment. 

But when you all get up, he’s already gone.

* * *

You’re eating meat off a stick to soak up the scorpion bowl you and some coworkers shared after a long fucking week. They’re upstairs getting the dance party started, but you’re not allowed up until you finish, so you’re content to watch the shot girls weave expertly in and out the crowd with their wares.

Suddenly a yellow and orange drink slides in front of you.

“But I didn’t …” you start, and that’s when Mary appears and clinks his bright red drink into yours.

“Fancy seeing you here. Oh—is that chicken?” 

Before you can answer, Mary is sliding off a chunk of meat from the skewer and popping it in his mouth.

“Hey!” You sputter at him, but he just pushes the drink at you.

“Drink your sunrise.”

You glare at him, but he just takes a big gulp of his own, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. He removes his cherry and holds it out, and you notice that his nails are painted black with a red glitter topcoat.

“C’mon, don’t leave me hanging.”

Sighing, you remove your cherry and hold it out. As Mary touches his to yours he says “Clink”, and then pops it into his mouth. You do the same, squishing it between your back molars before taking a sip from the plastic stirrer in your sunrise. When you look up again, you see that Mary’s mouth is moving, his eyes unfocused. You’re about to ask him what’s wrong when he suddenly makes a noise of triumph. He spits something into his palm, which he immediately presents to you proudly.

He’s tied the cherry stem into a knot.

You just gape at him.

Mary deposits the stem into your hand, closing your fingers around it before leaning in. “In case you forget what I can do with my tongue.” Then he gently closes your mouth with a hand to the bottom of your chin. “You know, you keep doing that, and one day someone’s gonna stick something in there.”

Before you have a chance to respond, someone across the bar yells Mary’s name.

“Oop! Gotta bounce! Smell ya later, gelfie.”

And then he’s downing the rest of his drink and heading over to a gaggle of hipsters in flannel and leather. As you finish the last hunk of meat, you watch the group leave as they shout and whoop.

* * *

The last thing you expect to see on stage is Mary Goore on guitar when he’s not even in the fucking band. True, he’s been known to mix and match and do the occasional substitution—but there wasn’t even an  _ announcement _ about it. 

He’s in his stage shirt—the one almost covered in myriad blood trails—and a pair of jeans that are only torn at the knees. There’s a line of drinks next to him from admirers that he’s doing his best to slam back in between songs. The venue doesn’t make  _ those _ kind of mixed drinks, so you’d sent Mary a shot of tequila with a cherry impaled on a plastic sword in it. “Inside joke,” you’d explained to the confused bartender.

When Mary gets to it, you watch the confusion on his face as he examines the contents. Then his head shoots up, scanning the crowd until his eyes land on you. You wave your own cherried sword at him before sucking the cherry into your mouth. He grins, takes out the sword, and runs it along his tongue before popping the cherry in. There are a few hoots from the audience, and then Mary is shooting the tequila before starting into the chords of the next song.

After the set ends, you convince your friends to stay for another round, vibrating with the certainty that Mary will come out to sass you. You can’t wait to see the look on your friends’ faces when he does.

It’s completely by accident that you even see him leave at all. 

You’re waiting in line for the only bathroom in the entire place, when you see the band erupt from the back room. You raise your hand to wave, but Mary isn’t even looking in your direction. Instead, he’s got his arm draped around the bassist—the one everybody considers the “pretty” one—and is close talking in his ear. From the way the bassist’s hand is moving in Mary’s back pocket, you have a good idea who he’s leaving with tonight even before you watch them slip out the back door.

* * *

After that night, you go back to avoiding any place you think Mary might be. So it’s with irritated exasperation that you see him collecting cover for Thursday 80′s Night. He’s sitting on a stool, legs splayed wide open—with absolutely no shame that there’s a giant hole on the inside of his one thigh—his signature leer on full display.

You’re  _ this close _ to suggesting to your friends that you just ditch theme night and go sing karaoke at the Chinese restaurant that turns into a club after 10pm, but then Mary sees you. He grins and waves you forward. You try to shake your head, but your friends see, and the group breaks free of the line. 

A few people still waiting whine, but Mary just shrugs and taps his pen on the clipboard. “They’re on the list, guys.”

With exclamations of “Cool, dude” and “Thanks, man”, your friends fork over the $20 to Mary. When you try to hand yours over too, Mary just shakes his head.

“Gelflings don’t pay.”

“Stop calling me that,” you snap.

Mary looks a bit taken aback, but nods. “Yeah, ok.”

Again, you hold your money out, but he shakes his head again.

“Nah, you’re all set.

You narrow your eyes at him. “But I want to pay.” 

“Buy your friends a round or something.” He gives you a wolfish smile. “Buy  _ me _ a round.”

You slam the bill down on the stool between his legs, and he only flinches a little. He looks up and squints at you.

"Uh … have I done something to you?”

Inching closer, you get right up in his face. His eyes drop down to your lips before flicking back up.

“You’ve done nothing to me, Mary Goore. Nothing at all.”

For once he has no witty rejoinder, and you don’t bump into anything as you make your way inside.

* * *

Life gets a little busy, and before you know it, you realize it’s been two weeks since you’ve been out and about for real anywhere. You send out a text to the group chat, and soon there are plans to see some up-in-coming band at the bowling alley venue.

When you get there, you’re resigned to your fate when you see Mary holding court in the corner. His jeans are more holy than ripped, but you can definitely see his boxers peeking through. He’s in a modified sleeveless tee and his vest. The table next to his group is littered with empty pint glasses and beer bottles.

You look away before he has a chance to catch your gaze. It’s not like you can hide your presence, but you certainly don’t have to  _ encourage _ him.

The group of you manage to snag a table close enough to the stage that’s being constructed over the lanes, and you put in an order for a round of beers. You sense him even before your friends do a double take at who’s behind you. Sighing, you twist around in your seat.

“What.”

Something you can’t pinpoint flickers across his face. He shrugs.

“Haven’t seen you ‘round.”

“Well, I’m not a grifter. I got shit to do.”

His face falls.

Your friends are watching this exchange like it’s a tennis match.

“I have something for you.”

Before you can even say anything, he’s walking back to his corner and rummaging through his leather jacket. He comes back over and starts searching your face—or at least that’s what you assume he’s doing. Satisfied with what he sees, he nods, then unfurls his palm. In it is a jeweled stud that’s eerily close to the color of your eyes.

“I noticed you were pieced,” he says as he offers forth the earring.

Game. Set. Match.

“I—”

When you make no movement to take it, Mary gently places the stud on the table in front of you.

“Ok,” he says and walks away. You only watch him for a moment before turning back to your table and picking up the stud.

One of your friends gapes at you.

“Did Mary Goore just penguin you?”

You look up sharply. “What? No. Shut up.”

* * *

It doesn’t stop there.

When Mary sees the stud in one of your holes—after you sanitized the fuck out of it—he starts giving you tokens. A bejeweled pin for your coat lapel. A subtle bracelet chain. A scuffed silver ring with a onyx inlay. A mother-of-pearl button to replace one you lost on your jacket.

A new one every time he sees you wearing the last one.

You have no idea where he’s getting them. They obviously aren’t new, and you doubt he’s trolling the pawn shops. Each time, he merely comes over, presents his offering, then leaves. 

Some part of you realizes you’ve accepted his pitched woo when you get him a band pin from the local secondhand record shop. You know he usually works the door at the Irish pub on Friday nights, so you make it one of your stops. If he sees you in line, he certainly doesn’t try to wave you in again—but when your turn comes up again, you can see a smile start to break out on his face before he schools it.

“ID, please. Cover is $10 before 9 o’clock. No exceptions.” He smirks.

You mock gasp at him. “Highway robbery. I don’t even expect to pay that much on drinks.”

“Like you need to pay for your own drinks, beautiful.” His eyes take all of you in.

“Is that flattery, Goore?” you say leaning into his space.

His shrug says “maybe,” but his hooded eyes say “absolutely.”

Eyes still trained on his, you fish out two crisp fives while stealthily palming the pin. He cups his free hand out, and you place the bills in it, then rest the pin on top. Mary’s eyes zero in on the thing that’s not like the other, and you take the opportunity to skedaddle into the pub—two can play at the gift and run game.

* * *

It’s Saturday afternoon, and you’re bumming around in your apartment in a ratty tee and shorts when the buzzer makes its god awful noise. You’re a little wary because your other roommates are out, and you’re not expecting company.

You press the intercom. “Yes …?”

Feedback and a garbled male voice come through.

“Uh. This is Mary Goore. I’m here for …” he trails off, and you wonder if at any point you told Mary your name.

“Hey, dude,” you say.

“Oh. Is that you, um …”

You smile.

“Your gelfling? Yeah.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool. Can I … come up?”

You look down at yourself, and then at the detritus in the living room from 5 people.

“Or you could come down …?” he crackles.

“Gimmie 10,” you say.

Twenty minutes later you’re out the door, and you find Mary leaning against your building, thumbs hooked in his jeans. It’s a dreary day, so his parasol is nowhere in sight.

“Hey,” you say, and Mary opens his eyes. You’re in a comic book t-shirt and your denim shorts, and his eyes travel over you.

“Can I show you something?”

“Sure—” you start, then add, “—within reason.”

He nods. “Yeah. C’mon.”

The two of you start walking, you letting Mary take the lead.

After a block in silence, he says, “Thanks for the pin.”

You look over at him. “Thanks, uh … for the everything.”

He grins. “They look great on you.”

You walk a few more blocks, Mary taking you to a part of town that’s still close to the grid, but far enough that the houses are spaced apart. When he leads you to the back of a 3-story Victorian, you hesitate as he slides through the gate.

“What?”

“Is this the part of my life where I end up in pieces in a ditch?”

Mary rolls his eyes. He points to what looks like a back door.

“My door is here.”

Still wary, you follow after him as he unlocks the door and heads down a set of concrete stairs. You peer down at him.

“Are you sure this isn’t your murder basement?”

He turns to look up at you, his face scrunched in annoyance.

“Not all of us can afford nice, sunny apartments in high rises. Don’t be an asshole.”

“Sorry,” you say, even if you’re not 100% convinced.

You make your way down the steps and into the apartment. It’s actually not the lair you thought it would be. There are support beams throughout, but the paint is cheery and the furniture looks like your grandma got loose. Black clothes are draped everywhere, and there’s an old pizza box on the coffee table—but otherwise Mary’s place isn’t the shitshow you thought it would be.

“The lady’s mom died down here,” he says as he drops his keys on the kitchen counter. “I got it at a steal. As long as I pay rent and don’t blast music past 10pm, she could really give a fuck.”

“Is this what you …?”

He smiles at you, almost shyly. “No. C’mere.” He opens a door, and your interest propels your forward.

It’s Mary’s bedroom. Black cotton sheets are hung all around the room, and what look like back silk sheets—ripped at the corners—are stretched over a queen mattress laid on the floor.

“I’m not allowed to paint,” he says when he sees your line of sight. “And she got rid of the bed for obvious reasons.”

Your gaze comes down to the mahogany dressers. They’re covered in … costume jewelry? You approach one and are fascinated by all the baubles on it. There’s also a stack of polaroids. You pick them up to shuffle through. Most of them are portraits of what you assume are Mary’s conquests—though there are few … less than tasteful nudes. 

You squint up at him. “I don’t understand, Mary. What am I supposed to be seeing? Some dead woman’s costume jewelry and bedroom set? Your porn collection?”

“Sorry,” he rubs the back of his neck. “I forgot about those.”

He comes over to take them from you. “I usually keep them here …” He opens the top drawer of the dresser, and you see that it’s full of lingerie.

You back away. “What the fuck is this? Am I here to pose for you or some shit?”

“What? Wait, no! That’s not—” Marys rubs his face in his hands. “Wait, lemme start over.”

Even though you’re dubious, you let Mary take your hands in his.

“Yeah, this place has strong grandma energy … but everything else is me. I brought you here because …” He sighs. “I like to look at the jewelry and I like to wear the lingerie. People, too. I like pretty things, ok? I like to collect them.”

You look back over at the hoard on his dresser.

“So you like … go to estate sales or something?” 

You try to imagine Mary in his studs and ripped clothes—fake blood dripping down his face—at some fancy yard sale. 

He grins at you.

“You have no idea what my day job is, do you?”

“It’s not making breakfast for your conquests?”

Mary laughs.

“Jesus, no. They want me to stick around as much as I want to stick around. No. I’m a grave digger. Well, I’m  _ kinda _ a grave digger. Blah blah blah … long, boring story: because of union rules I can’t  _ officially _ be a grave digger—so I’m paid under the table.”

You slap your hands to your mouth. “OH MY GOD. You’re a grave robber. OH MY GOD YOU’RE A GRAVE ROBBER. Did you?” Your hand flies to the stud in your ear. “ _ IS THIS?! _ ”

Mary chuckles at you, then shrugs.

“Yeah, ok. Maybe. But it’s not like they can take it with them—and it turns out that under the table doesn’t come with benefits.”

“Oh my god—is this where the mausoleum rumor came from?”

Mary again takes your hands and draws you closer to him.

“That’s actually not far from the truth. It’s a nice, quiet place. The stone’s a little cold, but no one bothers you there. We should go sometime.”

You look around his room again.

“But … I guess I thought you lived …. This is nice, Mary. Why wouldn’t you want to take people here? Why did you sleep on my couch that one time?”

He shrugs. “It’s just a place to sleep, isn’t it? A cheap, furnished basement.”

You stare at him.

“Why me? Why show me?”

He sighs, air punching forcefully out his nose.

“I dunno. Just a feeling. You ever just. Vibe with someone?” He ghosts a finger down the side of your cheek. “And I like pretty things.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I’d like to.”

You stare at him. Hard. “I don’t like to share.”

He grins at you with too many teeth.

“If I collect you, I want you to be mine.” He crowds into you. “Will you be my Pretty Thing?”

You smile back at him before you’re leaning forward to press your lips into his.


End file.
